


We Still Had the Radio

by Aviantei



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Gen, Jokes Whims & Coincidences AU, OC centric, One Shot, Twelve Shots of Summer, Twelve Shots of Summer: Gotta Write 'Em All!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22074982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviantei/pseuds/Aviantei
Summary: [One Shot; Jokes, Whims, & Coincidences AU] Colors blend and blur, and she bets William doesn't even know what he's painting anymore. Except for the one on his easel, a massive canvas smeared in dark blue and brown, a single point of piercing orange that's supposed to be her. [Twelve Shots of Summer: Gotta Write 'Em All!] [tw: drugs]
Collections: Twelve Shots of Summer





	We Still Had the Radio

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jokes, Whims, & Coincidences](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207110) by [Aviantei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviantei/pseuds/Aviantei). 



> This one shot was originally posted on fanfiction.net on June 23, 2018. It was one of my entries to make up for missed prompts from the [Twelve Shots of Summer] challenge, this one going with a year one, week four prompt, "The Broken Under Bridges." Essentially, after writing "Cracks," I started this piece but never finished it. T-Sauce seemed like an excellent time to do it and explore this potential AU outcome to Jokes, Whims, & Coincidences.
> 
> Title is from Modest Mouse's "Dashboard."
> 
> This one shot does deal with drug abuse, so please take care while reading.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**We Still Had the Radio**

By: Aviantei

[Twelve Shots of Summer: Gotta Write ‘Em All 1-4 A]

A _Durarara!!_ One Shot

* * *

Tekichu Sosa sits in the middle of _Ransom_ , the pastel purples and pop music keeping her company as she snacks on her third slice of cake. Aiako is bustling about the café, her latest round of cosplay a mix of traditional and battle styles, straight out of some RPG or another. Sosa hums in delight as her latest bite of cake (a black forest so rich it almost makes her sick) spreads over her tongue. She almost misses her phone buzzing on the table and answers the call without looking at the caller ID.

_“Sosa, listen, you have to get back here.”_

It’s been so long since she’s spoken English that it almost makes her unbalanced. Then her brain kicks into gear and remembers that she’s multilingual and better start acting like it. Abandoning her fork for the moment, Sosa leans back and glares at the ceiling as if her ire will make it across the ocean.

“Don’t be stupid, Tristan,” she says, correcting the annoying little nuances her English has picked up over the time back in Japan. Aiako passes by, her golden eyes wide in curiosity. Sosa waves her back to work. “In case your brain’s completely fried by now, I need you to remember that I now live on the opposite end of the ocean. Also, I have a job and responsibilities that I can’t just drop for whatever, okay?”

Sure, those responsibilities are self-imposed—whims and jokes, the lot of them—and there is more than a fair share of people that would be happy if Tekichu Sosa were to lay off Tokyo for a while. But she herself is not one of them. Following through with one’s own plans is the key to self-satisfaction after all.

“This isn’t a joke,” Tristan says, his lack of amusement almost crackling through the line. Sosa holds back her sigh and allows him a second to speak his case. “It’s about William, okay? He’s seriously fucked up right now, and you’re the only one that can do anything about it. I think. Listen, I don’t really know, but you need to—”

Sosa doesn’t listen to anything else. She’s already hung up, stuffing her phone away before retrieving her wallet. Without even finishing her cake or saying goodbye to Aiako, Sosa’s out the door.

Izaya’s Shinjuku penthouse is just a train ride away, but it seems so much farther.

* * *

“Where are you going?” Izaya asks, standing in the doorway to her bedroom. The usually neat space has belongings scattered in every corner of the room, most of it clothes. Sosa doesn’t look up from her suitcase. Her corded accessories weigh heavy across her chest, arms, and pants, and she wonders if she’ll even be able to get them through customs without packing them away.

_Will-kun made these._

Sosa zips up her bag without putting the cords inside. Izaya is still in the doorway, still waiting for an answer. His posture is lax, and that smirk that sends her brain flying in twenty different directions of excitement is on his face. The spark of interest she’s come to recognize is beyond burning in his eyes.

“America,” she says, no other explanation. She doesn’t need to give one. If Izaya doesn’t like it, he can—he can what? If he said the right things, Izaya could convince her to stay. Sure enough, his inhale before speaking is audible. “Don’t.” She doesn’t want to hear it. “It’s my business and my game. Surely you can improvise.”

She already reserved her flight, sent Aiako a message. She hasn’t warned Linda and doesn’t plan to. With the Yellow Scarves running around, that girl has got enough on her plate. No one else matters. No one else except Izaya, who seems more amused than anything about the situation. Sosa’s typical responses of excitement and admiration are dulled by the bubbles of unease flourishing in her gut.

 _You’re scared,_ she realizes, and it disgusts her. But eleven hours seems like far too long, because so much can happen.

“Ah,” Izaya says as Sosa elbows past him, rolling her suitcase through the doorway and around the loft. Izaya doesn’t follow, but his voice sure does. “Well, since you’re in such a tizzy, I suppose I can give you a vacation. Do bring back something nice to play with, will you?”

But Sosa’s already hoisting her luggage down the stairs, half considering throwing it. Anything to get to him faster.

* * *

As expected, her cords cause a metal detector fit at security. The guards don’t look amused, and the crowd of people in line behind her even less so, but Sosa doesn’t care. When she unwraps the cords and slips off her armbands for additional security checks to get cleared for flight, she feels light. Like she needs the weight to remind her where she is.

Like she needs to remember what William’s like.

She’s so busy trying to put the cords back in place that she doesn’t even give the frustrated security guard a taunt as she passes the security checkpoint and continues to her boarding gate. Despite booking the soonest flight, the wait until boarding is too long. Every single flicker of movement and sound from the others around her just makes her hates humans even more.

As the flight’s about to take off, Sosa realizes she should have asked Tristin for more details. She knows next to nothing other than William’s in trouble. She should have asked in what way, should have asked how long she had. Should have gotten more than this.

No wonder Izaya looked ready to laugh as she left. She’s a shitty info broker.

But the flight’s taking off, and her phone is stuck in airplane mode. Sosa thinks of William—of Will-kun and the years they spent together. The cords wrapped tight around her body may seem uncomfortable to anyone else, especially for the whole duration of the flight. But William was a motherfucking miracle worker, and they’re not. Sosa remembers watching him knock punks out with his cords, watching him make her a set of her own, teaching her how to fight. She gave him several nasty bruises in reveled in the ones she got in return.

She doesn’t sleep for the entire flight. She’s too kicked up on adrenaline and keeps thinking of all the things that could be wrong.

* * *

Her phone’s dead by the time she lands, and checking into the country takes much longer than it should. The customs’ lines seem to stretch out for miles and move at a pace any snail could outstrip. Sosa spends the whole time pissed off to high hell— _fucking awful American airports._ Taking a taxi doesn’t help because the driver insists on going the speed limit, and Sosa can’t even consider renting a car since she’s clueless about how to drive.

When the damn cab at last makes it to William’s place, Sosa tosses some bills the driver’s way, not waiting for her change—the American dollar’s shit anyways—almost forgetting her luggage in the race to get to the door. The suitcase is abandoned in the entryway, and Sosa doesn’t even pause to take off her shoes. The living room, with its wine-red walls and tasteful décor, is a mess, but it could be worse than scattered food wrappers and dishes. Nothing’s upturned, and the kitchen seems fine, though no where near as organized as Sosa left it, as expected.

Clicking her tongue, she goes to William’s room/art studio.

She expected him to move things around after having both his roommate and sister jump ship to Japan, but it looks like he’s living in the same cramped space as always. The bed is still pressed into a corner, a minimalistic dresser right under the window. The rest of the place is loaded up with the usual maze of canvases and sketchbooks, paint and pencil marks filling up once blank pages. And his art is what’s changed—even someone like Sosa could appreciate his paintings, his _everything_ , how much life he put into it, how much he aimed to create that _motherfucking masterpiece_.

There’s no signs of that in the lifeless pieces before her, and it’s not just because they’re unfinished. His old works are plastered on the walls and they almost sing with life. Colors blend and blur, and she bets William doesn’t even know what he’s painting anymore.

Except for the one on his easel, a massive canvas smeared in dark blue and brown, a single point of piercing orange that’s supposed to be her.

She just suppresses the bile in favor of logic.

_The door was unlocked, so he’s gotta be here._

And she hears the water running in the adjoining bathroom. She knows how busted her friend is, and she’s _pissed_.

“ _William!_ ”

* * *

Sosa kicks open the bathroom door, seeing just what she expected to see—her idiot, drugged up, _only_ best friend sitting under the running showerhead, pill bottles lined up on the edge of the tub like sentinels, their caps still thankfully in place. He’s still dressed, his shirt plastered to his chest. His hair, whiter than the damn porcelain bathtub, is down from his ponytail, long strands tangled. His normally tan complexion is pale, but not enough to certify as an emergency

“Ah,” William says, green eyes on the verge of looking straight past her, “I gotta be seeing stuff this time. Sorry, Sosa, I’m really out of it.”

Sosa storms over to him, knocks the bottles to the ground with a sweep of the arm and the sound of a million baby rattles, and grabs onto his soaking shirt. She can see his pupils, dilated beyond belief, but she doesn’t have to, because she knows.

“How’d you get stupid enough to blow your money on drugs,” she says, because it’s not a question.

William gapes at her for a while, in sheer disbelief. Sosa stops herself from drawing her cords and smacking him across the face, settling for shaking him hard enough to knock his head against the shower wall. She doesn’t bother turning off the showerhead, letting the cold water soak them both into oblivion.

William’s gaze grows more unfocused as he murmurs, “You left,” and Sosa can’t stand the tears pricking at her eyes. She hasn’t cried in years, and it’s always from this idiot. “I guess…I wanted to get close to you.”

And Sosa’s still somehow sharp mind pulls the pieces together, an unusual attack of self-blame rearing up in her chest. She remembers spending a whole year trying out every manner of drugs in their living room, remembers being a complete moron with Tristin while William just made sure Linda didn’t have to put up with it. And she knows it’s a lame excuse, but being alone all this time must have gotten to him, must’ve made something snap.

“You’re fucking retarded,” she says, because he is.

William almost laughs, his eyes seeming alive for just a second. “And you’re a bitch,” he whispers without any venom.

“ _Well you’re a piece of shit!_ ”

And Sosa’s crawling into the bathtub, William’s clothes making sickening noises as she rattles him some more. The urge to punch his face in burns right through all her other jumbled emotions. “How could you? You have your future to think about. You have _Linda_. If your parents caught wind of this, they’d disown you! No more house, no more sister! Get your head out of the fucking clouds and stop chasing after me, you moron!”

And her tears are hot when mixed in with the ice raining down from the shower, because Sosa knows just what her real worry is.

_I still need you._

* * *

Sosa lets William know he’s moving and doesn’t give him the opportunity to argue.

Getting sober and on a plane is easy. He has a passport from the graduation trip his parents sent him on. Sosa already had a plane ticket ready, because part of her knew where this was going. Call it intuition, but part of her wasn’t leaving without him. She’ll arrange getting his stuff to Japan later.

It’s the flight over that causes the problems. They’re in first class, so that eliminates a crowd, but Sosa’s seen withdrawal even if she’s never experienced it. She passes off a sedative from Shinra as standard meds in her carryon, and that at least keeps William under, even if his body’s messed up to hell by now.

Sosa manages to get him off the plane by pure luck and starts to look for Shinra in baggage claim. The whole damn place is crowed to high hell and back, disgusting little humans flitting about with their disgusting little lives. William’s shaky and attracts enough stares as a six-foot plus foreigner without the drug card involved, but Sosa manages to lead him through the cesspool, her hand wrapped around his. It’s Shinra’s lab coat that makes him easy to pick out.

Just as Izaya’s all black garb makes it easy to see him hovering nearby. Sosa doesn’t bother to hide her curse as she stomps across the tiled floor, William and her carry-on following behind. Shinra gives an apologetic smile as Izaya takes on his trademarked smirk.

“Welcome back, Sosa-chan!” he says with an overenthusiastic wave. “It seems you’ve brought me back an interesting toy indeed. Do I get to know our new houseguest’s name?” He steps forward, brown eyes flashing as they look over William. Izaya’s smaller, but he still looks like the predator in the matchup. William’s too distracted to even notice, not to mention he doesn’t know anywhere enough Japanese to be conversational.

Sosa trains her eyes on Shinra, putting on a half-strength smile. She can take care of Izaya later. “Thanks for taking on the sudden job, Shinra-kun. I super appreciate it.” Sosa pulls on William’s hand, urging him in the direction of the exit. “I’m sure I don’t have to talk about keeping things under wraps with you, yeah?” It’s half a recognition of Shinra’s underground doctor status, half a dig at his failure to keep Izaya out of the situation. “Let’s get Will-kun to your place.”

“Now, now, now,” Izaya says, leaning into Sosa’s line of vision. The move also brings him a step closer to William, and Sosa upgrades her smile to the most blinding version she can muster. “You’re not really planning on ignoring me, are you, Sosa-chan? That hurts, you know?”

“Ah, my bad, Izaya-kun,” Sosa says with the perfect blend of sweetness and underlying malice, “it’s not that I was ignoring you. It’s just that I didn’t have time to register your presence considering this has nothing to fucking do with you.”

She’s never treated Izaya as an enemy. He needs to take a moment to recover from the surprise. But then he’s right back to normal with that laugh of his, and Sosa can’t even bring herself to be impressed. “Considering your home is my home, I’d say it has something to do with me.” His tone may be lighthearted, but Sosa recognizes the manipulation in progress all too well. Izaya always starts with facts.

“Will-kun will be staying elsewhere. No need to worry.”

And Sosa always plays with whatever possibilities she can muster.

She gives Shinra a glance—nothing pointed, but it gets the job done. The doctor coughs, uncertain of just whose side he’s supposed to be on. In the end, Sosa doesn’t think it’s her that wins, but instead it’s Shinra’s own intellectual curiosity. “Izaya-kun, would you mind stepping aside for now? I’ve been asked to provide treatment, so it’d be best if I take care of that, okay?”

Izaya glances between them both, assessing the situation. With two against one (and one non-functioning voter), he raises his hands in surrender. “Very well, I’ll let it be. I’ll even let you use some personal days, Sosa-chan. Just don’t stray from work too long.” And just like that, he’s melted into the crowd, humans chattering as they wait for and collect their luggage.

Sosa’s aware of the fact that she lost that round; William’s trembling hand in hers is much more important.

* * *

The first assessment and opening treatment go smooth enough. Shinra and Celty both are kind enough to allow William to stay in their flat throughout the process. No one comments on how Sosa stays close enough to know if something’s wrong. Or maybe they don’t notice that she can’t look at him for more than a few minutes, because she knows what happened was her fault.

_What bullshit. People are supposed to be responsible for themselves._

It doesn’t erase the feeling.

Celty’s hectic running around seems to signal that one of the hundreds of intricate spirals in Ikebukuro is coming to a head. Sosa can’t bring herself to care. She doesn’t check the Dollars forums, doesn’t answer any of Izaya’s messages. She just sits in Shinra and Celty’s home, eats when offered food, and waits for an indication that William is alright.

It takes days, but he asks for Sosa. She hears his voice calling her name, even from the guest room several meters away. Shinra returns conversation in somewhat accented English, but he’s fluent enough that communication isn’t an issue. His words aren’t as clear as William’s. And then there’s her name again, and Sosa wonders just what in the world she’s waiting for.

_I rushed across the damn ocean to see him and I can’t even walk over to another room? How fucking pathetic?_

Sosa stands up. She stretches, pulling out the stiff muscles from her shoulders all the way down her back. Her cords are still wrapped around her, their weight a reassurance and a burden. She takes her time walking down the hall, socks padding against the soft carpet. William and Shinra’s voices grow closer, but she’s stopped caring what they’re saying.

She almost doesn’t adjust her expression before opening the door, but the reminder of Shinra’s presence corrects that. Sosa puts on a chipper smile, adjusts her body language, and enters the guest room without knocking, skipping over to William’s side. He looks unsurpassably awkward tucked in a futon, his tall form almost too big for the bedding.

“Yo, Sleeping Beauty,” she says, the long locks of hair that frame her face dangling down in William’s face. “You awake enough to have a conversation like a real human being yet?”

William blinks a few times. His eyes are normal, more green than pupil. Shinra shrugs as if to say _What can you do?_ But Sosa doesn’t bother to acknowledge that, just keeps staring down William as if he’ll disappear if she blinks.

It’s funny, because that’s the same way William’s staring at her.

“I’m fucking retarded,” he says, because he is.

Even so, Sosa smiles. “And I’m a bitch.”

Shinra lets out a nervous chuckle and stands up. “You’re doing well enough, Eidelcarn-san. I’ll come and check on you later.” Without even packing up any of his supplies, Shinra slips out of the room, the door shutting behind him. Sosa lets the façade she was holding up crumble, but her grin still sticks.

“You’re real?” William asks after a minute. Sosa nods. When he tries to move his arm, the covers haven’t even shifted a centimeter before he groans. “That’s not how this is supposed to feel.”

“I’m sure Shinra-kun gave you something extra special.” It would be just like the doctor to use some experimental medicine or whatever. Considering the last-minute request, Sosa supposes she owes him. She also knows that’s not what she wants to talk about. “I told you before, but you’re moving. Here.”

Something sparks enough in William’s brain that he pulls together a weak smile. “To Japan?” Sosa nods. William shuts his eyes, like he wants to ignore whatever’s going on in her head. She doesn’t even know herself, but she’s rolling with it. It wouldn’t be the first time a whim decided her future, or even his. “I’m not gonna try to argue, but if I did, I know you’d win. So, sure. I’m moving to Japan.”

“Good.” With no regard to Shinra’s supplies, Sosa flops down onto the side of William’s futon. Shinra’s bag jangles when she kicks it, and Sosa’s cords press uncomfortable lines into her side. “I don’t have my own place right now, but I can get us something. It’ll be ready when you are. We can live together, like old times.”

“Heh.” William’s laugh sounds resigned, but she can feel him shift a bit under the blankets. Sparing him the effort, Sosa scoots closer to his side, hoping to share some of her warmth. “You still wanna deal with me? Even though my brain’s all melted?”

Sosa stops herself from kicking William in the side. She doesn’t repress her snort, though. “Melt whatever you want. It won’t change the fact that you’re still my Will-kun.” Hers, and no one else’s. No matter what Izaya tries, Sosa won’t let him get away with it. Not against William. Sosa closes her eyes, too, and the memory of his scattered and incomplete art haunts her. “I’ll get you a proper art studio. With all the fancy shit you want. So, paint me a motherfucking masterpiece, got it?”

Sunshine streams through the window and warms Sosa’s skin. William’s breathing is so even that she wonders if he’s fallen asleep. It wouldn’t be so bad, taking a nap together side by side.

But William takes in a deep breath, one that seems to suck in everything around him, including her. “Okay,” he says, voice as strong as when she first met him in an alley fight, all those years ago. “I’ll paint something so amazing that even you’ll understand.”

Sosa doesn’t even bother to retort to the implication of her shitty aesthetic sense. It’s true anyway. So, she just moves her head a bit, close enough that they can share the pillow. “Alright,” she whispers. “If you’re willing to do that much, then I’ll deal with you until we crash.”


End file.
